


sage

by drmsqnc



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Suspense, after my second time watching this stupid film i finally succumbed, as always, if you hadn't guessed already these tags have absolutely nothing to do with the fic, it's late and i want to go to sleep and god damn that scene where he walks to the throne, killmonger being killmonger, killmonger theme music plays aggressively in the background, shut up no one talk to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 18:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13932360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drmsqnc/pseuds/drmsqnc
Summary: “I know you’re not who you say you are.”





	sage

“I know you’re not who you say you are.”

You don’t wait for a response as you lift up on your toes to open the cupboard. After a second thought you groan and shed your sweatshirt, leaving you in a breezy, cotton tank top. You tie it around your waist, grumbling complaints underneath your breath at mother nature. ‘Hot Saturday’, the newscaster had said. More like a sweltering Saturday. The air was practically drenched with humidity, even inside your apartment.

Nothing changes as Erik yawns in the corner of your eye, switches the channel.

“Yeah?” He asks, voice dry with boredom. “What am I then, babe?”

You hum, open the fridge. “Well for one, you’re a black-ops soldier.” Your eyes narrow at the missing pudding in the left hand corner as you remove the bowl of lettuce. Men and their damn sweet tooth. Erik doesn’t reply, and you realize that your sentence had trailed upwards with an inclination that you weren’t finished.

“Oh,” You say. “And you’re also from Wakanda.”

There’s a silence.

The television picks up an annoying commercial tune in the space and you frown, roll your eyes. A huff leaves you in a rush of breath as you place the large cast iron pan on the stove-top. The things people tried to sell these days.  

When Erik finally speaks his voice is closer, by the wall. You didn’t hear him move from the couch. It’s hardly a surprise. You barely hear him move anywhere.

“You know,” he starts. “That took longer than I thought it would.”

“Did it?” You muse, too busy concentrating on the cilantro stems you’ve started to chop. He could have your full attention when you were sure there wasn’t a chance your fingers would join the meal.

He makes a halfhearted noise of agreement. Again, he’s closer, soundless. “For all your bragging of what a stellar mind you have, I expected you to clamp down on my real job description months ago.”

“Oh I did, Mr. Naval Academy,” you look over your shoulder to offer him a smug smile before shrugging innocently. “But a magician doesn’t reveal her cards all at once, don’t you know?”

Erik laughs, the sound lifting your lips as you turn your back to him.

“Magic for sure. 'Cuz you see - I knew you’d figure out the Afghanistan deal. I set enough hints about that.” He chuckles again.

You shuffle. “Well-”

“What I do wanna know though,  _princess_ ,” he interrupts, and suddenly any and all humour is sucked from his voice, rendering the air still. “Is how exactly you heard about little ol’ homeland. Because I know for a fact I didn’t mention anything about it.”

The atmosphere alters just like that.

A second ago he was harmless, laughing with you, but now power seeps from him - an authority steeled into his voice that wasn’t there before. It’s unnerving, how he switches his mentality as though it’s something palpable he can control. The way he manipulates the different masks he wears. Ice runs through your veins, lodges itself deep inside your stomach. His name is on your lips as you go to turn, but a sudden heat up against your back stops you stiff.

“If I were you,” he continues, breath hot against your ear and sending a shiver right through you. His voice digs low into liquid gravel, a hand slowly reaching round the two of you to cover yours - the one that was currently holding the knife. “I’d be very careful with how you answer.”

You inhale deeply.

“Did you know,” you begin after a pause, lean against the hard chest behind you. Killmonger’s grip tightens at your casual tone - and surely it’s Killmonger you’re dealing with now - any resemblance of your lover gone. “That you talk in your sleep?”

“Mm?” He asks. You never stopped mincing the vegetables on the cutting board and his hold is loose enough that he simply moves with you. He sways hypnotically and you follow without a second thought. It’s a dance, you realize, and not just one of words.

“It’s rare, but it does happen,” you affirm. “'Wakanda’ seemed to be a recurring name when you did, so I researched a little. It wasn’t hard to draw conclusions from there.”

The tension rolling the muscles underneath his skin seems to lessen, if even slightly, and you wonder what he was so afraid of, what you’re missing. You stretch to reach the pepper and he allows it, slips his hand from yours to rest underneath your ribcage. It presses into your side with a steady warmth, another rough palm at your waist keeping you grounded against him.

“You said you’ve known for quite a while,” Killmonger rests his chin in the curve of your neck, and it takes everything in you not to succumb to the fingers tracing symbols onto your flesh. His tone is nonchalant, clueless even, but you are not one to be fooled. Even without your knowledge of his MIT background, you’ve long since assessed for yourself everything about the man behind you, right down to the charismatic genius behind that disarming smile. “Why deal your hand now?”

You sigh indifferently. “Because you’re leaving soon.” A guttural growl of warning reverberates through his chest into you, and you know you’re treading on thin ice when his hips press you tighter to the counter. "You’ve been making calls. Staying out later at night. Last week I saw your phone’s tracker dug out and in the garbage. You haven’t exactly been very low-key.”

“I didn’t know I needed to be,” the  _around you_  is left unsaid, but you hear it loud and clear. “Was I wrong?”

It’s the first time true dread spikes within you as his posture shifts, shoulders roll unconsciously back and feet parallel so that weight is distributed evenly. A warrior’s stance. 

“No,” you assure, squeeze his hand at your side. You turn in his grasp to meet his gaze, those brown eyes piercing right through you with cold intelligence. “Not with me.”

_Never with me._

He stares.

“Although,” you break the sullen strain between the two of you to smirk at him. “I’d have to fight you if you didn’t come back to me.”

The quiet swells.

Then his lips quirk teasingly, teeth glimmering in the low light of the room, and all at once, Erik is back.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he drawls, and you yelp when he nips at your ear. “I only have a score to settle. I’ll be back. Trust me, it’ll be…with a  _bang_.”

You return his look, but can’t hide the way your smile shakes. Unbeknownst to him, you overheard one of his phone calls a few days ago. Whatever it was that he was planning, it was big. Logically you knew he could very well take care of himself just fine, but there was still a twinge of worry within you.

“Hey,” he frowns. When you focus your attention any place else but him, he chucks your chin, forcing you to look up. “You know I’ll come back, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say reluctantly. He doesn’t look anywhere near convinced and scoffs, buries his head in your neck. Your confusion at the action doesn’t last long when he starts to trail slow, hot kisses up your jaw. You gasp, wriggle with a laugh. “Yeah! Yeah, I get it.”

“Why am I still not sure?” Erik’s eyes narrow mischievously. You see the kiss coming before it even arrives, his lips pressing to yours, demanding, perfect, robbing you of your thoughts senseless. You shudder against his mouth, curl a hand into his shirt to push him away before it escalated into something you couldn’t resist.

“Behave,” you reprimand, take advantage of his slackened guard to slip from his hold entirely, dancing away. “I’m busy.”

“What are you doing anyway?” he asks, follows your movements with darkened eyes.

“I’m making  _carne asada_.”

You point the knife at him playfully, beckon with a finger.

“Now either shut up and help or get out of my kitchen.”


End file.
